The Bloody Lane
by E-Gor The Undead
Summary: Greek tragedies weren’t left in ancient times. Short drabbles surrounding a demigod who was a Confederate soldier during the Battle of Antietam. Rated T for War. Second story added.
1. The Bloody Lane

A/N- This story is about the Battle of Antietam— the bloodiest day in American history. Or more specifically, it's about the fight at the Sunken Road, or as some call it— the Bloody Lane. It's a kind of "different" PJATO story because of the setting and time period.

Percy Jackson and the Olympians belongs to Rick Riordan, though there is very little in this that is actually in the series.

Rated: T-- For blood, violence, death, spiritual turmoil and in a word--WAR.

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**The Bloody Lane**

The blue-clad soldier fell to the ground and Samuel Jennings felt it. He felt it as the soldier convulsed, as blood pored from the hole in the man's chest—the hole Sam had created—and after a few impossibly long minutes, he felt the soldier stop moving, becoming a new corpse for the flies.

Sam shook as he reloaded his rifle, he got battle-shakes bad. Ramming the cartridge he stared up at the September sun that roasted the plains, leaving nothing but dead grass, and dead bodies. He put back the rod and took off his gray cap to wipe the sweat on his forehead.

Despite his senses, or perhaps because of them, Sam wasn't afraid of death. He never had been. Sometimes he wondered if maybe it was his Father's strict Methodist teachings or his Mother's quiet serenity rubbing off. Maybe it was just him, and that sense of "just knowing."

_No murderer hath eternal life._

Sam frowned as he remembered the familiar scripture, and Mama's face came to mind. He pictured her caring for the store, Papa talking to customers, the three old ladies that knit on the porch, and his little brother Peter sneaking candy from the jar. But it was Mama whom he missed the most. It would be Mama who would be the saddest at what he'd become.

He put his hat on and tried to distract himself from the truth of what he was. Sure, they might justify themselves with colors, blue and gray, black and white, but in the end, people from the North died as easily as people from the South. If the corpses that were scattered over the battlefield could speak they'd probably agree.

The volleys of bullets stopped. Sam tried to relax, but his heart was beating like one of the drums the little boys played before battles, and older men played at executions. He was infernally aware, his senses darting from shadow to shadow and his heart was still beating out of his chest.

After a few minutes, the Union soldiers began advancing towards the fence again and Sam took refuge on the edge as gunfire started again. He jumped out, aimed and fired—another blue boy fell to the ground. This one took longer to die than the other had. The Unions forces were moving in closer now, and bodies began piling up on Sam's left and right, front, back, up, down, north, east, south, west.

And Sam could feel it.

He crouched among the bodies, his company might call him a coward he couldn't take the death, the constant death. Not the fear of it, but the ongoing, overarching agony that made his head split as bad as any bullet to the brain. Why was he here surrounded his dead comrades and dying compatriots? What sick person would surround themselves with the dead? Why?

Who's stupid idea was it to begin this war? It's not like Sam's family cared about slavery. They were too poor to buy slaves—They were too poor to buy their way out of the draft. Southern Pride maybe? But what was there to pride in except the fact they were winning— whatever that meant. Casualties lined both sides of the fence.

A Union brigade with a green flag, gathered for a charge. Sam was sick to his stomach, but he struggled to his knees, his head spinning. He reloaded his rifle in record time, and aimed out at the tide of blue moving towards the road.

"Faugh-a-Ballaugh!!!" they roared as they charged towards them. Sam fired one deadly shot before he fell to the ground clutching his head in agony as he felt the Union soldiers mowed down. His comrades fired round after round, cursing loudly as they took out the "Green Flag Brigade", or were felled themselves by the shots that were fired in their direction.

"Stand and Fire!" the colonel ordered. Sam took a deep breath, and shaking, stood to his feet. The blue army was breaking through despite their losses. Sam surveyed the positions of the armies as he reloaded his rifle and his stomach sank. If the Union made it to the edge of the sunken road, the Confederate soldiers would be slaughtered in it like cattle.

He aimed out at the tide of blue but stopped as a large bird dropped out of the sky and down towards the Union soldiers screeching on the top of its lungs. There was a commotion in the ranks as they changed the direction of their fire to the sky, but the bullets seemed to go right through. Then a man stood up, a Union General from the looks of him that fired several rounds with a pistol that sparkled bronze in the light.

The bird shrieked like a woman, and disappeared into golden dust.

That was impossible.

Sam stood at the spot were the bird had vanished, and in that instant, the Union General and the Confederate Soldier locked eyes--fiery red on steely black. The General smirked.

Sam shuddered, aimed his rifle and shot, but not before the general had fired of two bronze rounds with his pistol.

The bullets struck him, throwing him back. Sam took momentary satisfaction at the General stumbling with a gunshot wound in the gut, before the pain worked its way up his nerves.

And a gray-clad soldier fell to the ground, and Samuel Jennings felt it. Felt himself dying. He gasped for breath, the wound in his stomach sickly numb, and the wound in his chest burning. His eyes squeezed shut in pain, and when he opened them an unfamiliar man looked sadly down at him.

"Whaddya want?" Sam croaked, his body shaking.

The man had no reply, no reaction.

"Who're you?" Sam tried.

The man stood silent, unmoving, not aware of the bullets flying around him, or uncaring. He kept eyes his fixed on Sam, eyes so familiar. Eyes that Sam had seen thousands of times in his mother's dressing room mirror, in pools of water, and in rivers of blood.

His own.

"My name?" the man whispered, in a deep, powerful voice that seemed to defy the volume it was spoken at.

Sam could barely nod. The man considered for a moment watching Sam convulse.

"Hades," the mysterious figure said at last.

And Sam laughed, laughed until tears ran down his face, and laughed until he coughed up blood, and laughed some more, his body screaming in protest. So this is what he deserved. "No murderer hath eternal life," the scriptures had said. Eternal life, Sam might yet gain. But where?

"So I'm going to Hell?" He whispered, his voice breaking.

Sam felt himself die, and part of him knew that the strange man felt it too. That man didn't say a word, but leaned over and touched him. Sam took one last shuddering breath and was still.

"No," the man murmured, the fields of punishment would not be this child's fate.

Hades stood up and surveyed the battlefield and examined the faces of those who he would be seeing so very soon—Looked with granite eyes that had seen too much of death. He bowed his head at last and walked away.

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Nico walked through the battlefield of Antietam. It was an amicable enough place—vibrant green meadows of grass, a brilliant blue sky speckled with few clouds, and a meandering road outlined in an almost quaint wooden fence. He walked towards the sunken lane and scrambled over the fence. And as Nico looked around at the path, for a moment he could almost hear the gunshots. He could almost hear the screams. He could almost hear the unintelligible cry of charging Irishmen.

And for just one moment he could almost see the form of a soldier, staring out into the distance, hands clutched in silent prayer, and looking over the old battlefield with cold eyes. Eyes that Nico knew too well.

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A/N- Riiiiiiight. On a more positive note, have a deleted paragraph—

Hades stood up not noticing the bullets flying around him such as those fired by a red-haired Union soldier from New York. To his deathbed— though his comrades said it was to cover up the fact he had screwed up such a clean shot— Richard Dare claimed that the man had walked into the ground and disappeared. Family legends like this are crazy of course, and completely nonsensical.

And lastly, I'd like to point out some things-

1. I'm not depressed.

2. I don't agree with everything Sam thinks. He kind of took a life of his own and started thinking weird things. Especially relating to the idea of the afterlife. And he's kind of overly-mopey and lost his calling in life as a philosopher.

3. Yes, this is probably aimed at the wrong audience. It's a kind of out-there PJATO story. In many ways it barely goes under the category. Sorry, but not all demigods have a life like Percy.

4. I did do research on Anteitam. I tried to be as accurate as possible, but I got to a point when I realized that most fans of PJATO that read stories on probably aren't experts on the Civil War, so I kind of slacked off on some of the things, especially relating to firearms, aside from how to load them.

5. If anyone thinks that the violence is too much I will change the rating to an M. I really didn't want it to be highly rated, but it just turned out that way.

I'm not going to do something with PJATO for a while, but when I do, it will be more positive than this.


	2. As I Lay Dying

A/N- So when I said that I was going to write something positive next time I posted? I lied. I was originally going to leave "Bloody Lane" as a oneshot, but then I read as I Lay Dyingfor English class and suddenly Ester Jennings took a life of her own and was demanding a chapter about her. Then I got busy and several months later the file resurfaced, attacked me, demanded to be finished, and that I had a computer on me, why ever should I be taking notes in Astronomy, this was more important. Stupid insistent woman.

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**As I Lay Dying**

"Ester."

The voice called to her.

"Ester, staying here will not…" The voice cracked and broke off. "Come home…"

A hand touched her shoulder, and the voice continued to plead, but her eyes were only for the two small stones. Two shale slabs that marked the earth wherein her children lay—buried deep beneath the cold Virginia ground.

One miscarriage. Then Ana, who was buried in her Christening dress, still a baby. It had been Ester's dress as well, and she had felt then as if she had been buried instead of that small, cold form. Ester shivered in the chill air of an oncoming Winter. It had been threatening to snow for a few days.

Another miscarriage, then Sam, wonderful Sam. Then Peter. And then they were complete.

Then the news came from the not too distant Richmond that Ester no longer lived in the _United_ States of America. The confederacy of southern states had seceded one by one, and with them came the bells of war that divided North and South, the farmer and the factory worker, and replaced the box of stars and the seven bloody stripes with a cross that they all had to bear. It was their crusade—whether right or wrong—and they would see it through. All at an unbelievable cost.

And yet her resolution on the subject was so easily shaken at the cost of one civilian, and one soldier.

"Why?" she whispered.

"Because it's our home Ester, we still—"

"No, I mean why did _he_ let this happen."

He had no immediate reply.

"God works in mysterious ways," he said at last. "We can only persevere and trust in his judgment. He will be merciful. They were all baptized, Ester, they're in a better place." His voice wavered as if convincing himself.

Ester breathed deeply, allowing the cold air to pierce her where emotion could not, the places where abject apathy had ruled for so long. The part of her that no longer believed, and hadn't since the last time she had stood in this graveyard. After Ana, after the second miscarriage. Not since she had first met _him_.

_Damn him_. Ester began to shake.

"Matt. I need some time to contemplate. You don't have to wait out in the cold."

"I am all right."

"Matt."

He breathed in sharply, weighing the situation. She was sure he noticed her shaking, her heavy breathing, and the dead look on her face as she turned towards him. He had seen it before.

"Please Matt. I'll come home soon." _I always do._

His forehead was creased in worry, but he sighed in resignation.

"Hurry back," he said at last, then kissed her and started the walk back to town.

Ester closed her eyes and touched the stone of the fresh grave. Almost two years after the news came from Antietam that Sam was dead, an epidemic swept through the county. Peter faded fast, but she was grateful he didn't have to suffer.

Still, at least her youngest son had the benefit of a real grave, that was more than his brother had.

She remembered reading to Sam as child—stories that Matthew didn't approve of, but that she thought Sam had a right to know. After all, just because something was a story didn't mean it wasn't true.

"Ester."

Her eyes popped open, but she didn't dare look behind her, not that it mattered whether she saw him or not, she _knew _that voice.

"Ester," he said again.

She took a breath, and trembling turned to face him.

"What do you want?" she snapped at him, though her voice broke as she spoke and knew it didn't sound very impressive.

"I came to give my condolences."

"Did you have to? It's not as if _you'll _never see them again."

"It's not as if you won't either. Last I checked you were a mortal."

"Ha! A mortal! Oh, how I wish for the life of a mere moral. I see them—the monsters. They used to think I was crazy. I used to think I was crazy, that crazy Prynne girl. But I managed to learn to block them out and I went about my life. I got married. I had a daughter, and she died. And as I lay in the graveyard, you appeared, and showed me my monsters were real!"

"There is more than the monsters Ester."

"I know," she whispered. "But denying the bad is like stopping the sea."

"Not to my brother."

She almost smiled.

"Ester, you were denying everything when I met you. The good, the bad, and life itself."

"I was more content."

"Can you tell me with full sincerity that you were happier with your little husband and your daughter then you were after I met you."

"Don't you dare insult Matthew or Ana! I don't even know if he knows Sam wasn't his son!"

"You are avoiding the question."

"And you are a condescending bigot."

"I should probably punish you for your insolence."

Once again, Ester fought the urge to laugh, and instead began to cry.

"I cannot believe you. I'm standing over the graves of my children talking to an indignant immortal." She began to laugh as tears pored down her face. He stood there watching her quietly for several moments, in a detached sort of curiosity. Something about it made her sure that he had seen this reaction often in his line of work.

"Is life that hard? Would you rather be a crying stone?" he asked in a low voice, deathly serious.

"I am a crying stone. I looked back at Jerusalem and turned to salt and from me a spring poured, but it was bitter to drink."

"What?"

"Ah, I suppose you wouldn't know about that. But no, thanks for the offer, I'll persevere. As a human. As a mortal. Watching everybody around me die."

"Guilt trips won't assist you. I'm far too apathetic by now. I doubt even Orpheus could bring me to tears now."

"Did you not pity Eurydice?"

"Always, but I gave him a chance and he could not resist his lust and his disbelief."

"Those sound like my sins."

"They are."

"Will I get a special place on the field of punishment then?"

"I doubt it. You have to offend my brother for him to demand something like that. He really is so temperamental."

"And what about you? Do you believe in Homer or in Vergil? Is there a salvation?"

"It doesn't matter what I believe, it is what it is. I am the Lord of the Dead by no will of my own. I am here to tend a land as old as my grandmother."

Ester wiped her face with her sleeve, trying to rid it of the tears and the dirt, and possibly the sadness and the fear if it was possible to remove them with a mere movement. She rummaged in the pocket of her dress and pulled out several knotted strings.

"Here, take these, you have them already. The Fates gave them to me. They seem to have found a home on Matthew's storefront and took great pleasure cutting these for me." She held the strings out to him, and he took them from her.

"I can tell them to leave," he said as he put the strings in his coat pocket.

"That would be appreciated," she replied dryly.

"I've been so busy with this land lately with so many deaths. I'm going to have to move my home west again. I might as well move all the way to the west coast. No use denying the inevitable."

"Will this be over soon?" she asked hesitantly, almost scared of the answer. "I don't care who wins, I don't care about a lot at the moment, I just want it over."

"A while yet, I'm afraid. Stupid mortals clogging up the lines. Impossible to be efficient."

"So more mothers will lose their sons?"

"Yes, many more. It's a war, it happens." He paused for a moment and looked up the hill at the town—the stores, the church, the courthouse. "but when it ends, I think it will be here."

Ester nodded slowly, and brushed herself off.

"I need to go," she told him. He nodded in response, silent, daunting, and yet not someone to be afraid of.

"We'll meet again," he said.

"Of course," she replied, kissed him on the cheek and headed back to town. "I always knew we would."

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A/N- Sooo maaany biblical and mythological allusions. Both these stories turned out more philosophical than I meant them to be…Sorry! I always pictured Ester as well-read though, so it makes some sense, but I don't know how wide-spread mythology was in America in the 19th Century, but she kind of had a very knowledgeable tutor on the subject. Of course this doesn't stop her from being a morbid drama queen. You can see where Sam got it from.

This was written mostly to explore the role of the mother of the hero, who in Greek Mythology really only has the role of giving birth. I started it pre-LOTO and was very exited when several of the mothers got important roles. I'm also going with the assumption that most of the woman that the gods go after have the ability to see through mist.

I really wanted to mess around with what would have happened to an adulteress in this time period, but I really couldn't really work that into the story. Also, Matthew is a genuinely nice guy. I think he suspects that Ester had an affair, but part of him really doesn't want to know.

Note 1- I don't actually go out and say it, but the Jennings Family lives in Appotomax, Virginia where General Lee surrendered, ending the American Civil War. Also, in the last chapter I say the Jennings family doesn't own slaves, this is because although they own a store they aren't particularly wealthy. Oh, and I know how to spell "Esther," Ester is the Scandinavian spelling.

Note 3- About the thing with Homer and Vergil—Homer didn't believe that the underworld was a happy place for anyone. Even great heroes like Achilles were miserable there. Elysium did exist for Homer, but it wasn't part of the Underworld. Vergil however, did believe that there was a paradise somewhere for the dead, and put Elysium as part of the land of the dead. PJATO follows the Roman tradition here, and that's quite fine (not to mention much more positive) but Ester doesn't know this.

NEXT TIME I WRITE SOMETHING IT WILL BE SOMEWHAT POSITIVE. REALLY.


End file.
